Sunday, June 20, 2010

The snake is exquisite when concealed by sticks and reeds,Bending her way on her journey, Wearing her cloak of camouflage;Diamonds, shingles and shoalsIn brilliant colors, silver and gold,She glitters in her sly, crafty manner.Some rattle before striking, Others attack in silenceAnd the viper treats deathWith casual disdain,Undiscriminating when choosing her victim. Perhaps the bite is not fatal But its effect is everlasting,The damage always permanent, The site of the assault bears the scar.

Tuesday, June 15, 2010

Just to visit perhaps, in a blink of the eye(Lord knows I’ve no intentions of staying)…But to ease myself into that old kitchen of memory;Smell onions frying, Beans swelling in the pot,Mixed with the stale garbage that wafted in the daily heatfrom the covered can with green peeling paint,that always gave its daunting scent as a greeting to all who entered(I remember well.)The screen-door, full of clawed holes that let in tiny flies,which buzzed around in a gray circle, because that old alley cat (who left this world long ago)gave meaning to the term caterwauling;Always someone telling him “hush”Then the baby wakens from the noise.

South Westmoreland confused those seeking it;Never getting the name straight.Turn left at McArthur Park Pass the Elden Street ChurchWhere daily, the choir sang their hymns,In harmony with ever present sirens.

How young we were when we were youngSkin tight on our cheeksTouched by the sun without a bother.Bodies firm and unsuspectingVoices raised in protest of things we now favor.

To go back for a little momentDangle my feet in the pool I never found the time to dip in(Life was too busy)(What on earth were we doing that was so important?)And thank that brown eyed boy for saving me,Even though I seemed to get lost time and time again.

Sounds and scents are vivid reminders Of images put to rest long ago.Living takes on new meaning in life’s decline; Songs bittersweet intone long ago forgotten lyrics,Tokens of the past, omens of the future,Carried in the same tattered pocket,Confused in the memory,Blessed in the moment of when.

Friday, June 11, 2010

Forty-one years ago today, I gave birth to a baby boy. I’d entered the hospital in the middle of the night and labored until the early evening. Doctors examined me once an hour and were accompanied by students since I was in a teaching hospital, where I was giving my baby up for adoption. I was nineteen years old, turning twenty in a couple months and my parents, mainly my mother, had persuaded me to not keep my baby. During that day three friends visited me while I was still in a hospital room, before being transferred to labor and delivery. Although I was drugged, I was aware of their presence and have not forgotten their kindness and thoughtful words. Other than that, I was alone. The doctors discussed several times taking this baby by cesarean section but the heartbeat remained strong so surgery was delayed. Shortly after 7 in the evening, I was wheeled from the labor and delivery room to the birthing room, where a tiny baby boy was taken from me with forceps and suction. He was strong and healthy and gave a vigorous cry. I fell asleep soon after.When I awoke, I was in a lot of pain. It was morning of the next day. I had been given an episiotomy and also had lacerations. I will never forget lifting the sheets and having a peek at my deformed stomach and pubic area. It was a shock that I just as soon would forget about. The nurses kept trying to give me drugs for the pain but I’ve never been a big fan of semi-consciousness, so I refused. They fed me a breakfast of hot cereal and a grapefruit with half a maraschino cherry decorating its middle like a big red belly-button. I didn’t have much of an appetite but I did eat the cherry. After they took the tray away, a young girl opened the door and brought a blue bundle to my bedside. When I told her that I was surprised and had been told I wasn’t meant to see the baby, she left him with me and went to ask someone what the proper procedure was.I placed this little baby boy in my lap and sat up as well as I could. His little pink face peered back at me with rosy lips, shaped just like a cupid’s bow. Stork bites covered his eyelids, just like all the babies in our family who came before and after him. I unraveled the blanket and found the prettiest little body, dressed in a diaper and tiny t-shirt, blue booties on the feet. I pulled off the booties, inspected the toes and counted fingers, too. Peter Anthony, I whispered to him, having picked a name for a boy months before; I’d never thought of a girl’s name. I’d been convinced the baby growing in me was a strong male, who deserved a name with power and clout. I chose two names that historically belonged to men who were peacemakers, conquerors and leaders. As this little boy-child lay between my sore and aching thighs, the door burst open and a matronly nurse with the face of a sow appeared, followed by the remorseful and apologetic aide who had mistakenly brought the bundle to my bedside. The superior nurse chastised the girl and me, even though I was of total innocence. The die was cast. Though my baby was returned to the nursery and with a whole week in the hospital, I never saw him again, I began my scheme to get him back. After all, he was mine.

Monday, June 7, 2010

I’ve learned what to be quiet about,And when to say my piece;Times in the past I missed my cueAnd failed to keep the peace.But now I know when to speak And when to hold my tongue;This is a gift bestowed with ageRarely given to the young.The thoughts I spewed upon deaf earsIn my clumsy pastHave issued forth some mellowness;I’ve discovered tact at last.

Friday, June 4, 2010

Playing with the devil,When he carried a guitar,Living on stolen time,While riding in his car.We thought we were invincible,Ours cares were never free;They were bought and paid forWith willful obstinacy.We stormed the Crystal Palace,Blew our minds out in the park,Read Ginsberg and sang Cohen,Burning candles in the dark.The devil lit our pipes for usWith deceits our parents feared;Ignited bras and draft cards,And then he disappeared.Ages later he came back againAs what we loathed the mostTo spew more lies and twist our mindsHe’s the Radio Talk Show Host.

There he was, striding long and determined,the street shiny with rainAs the day embraced dusk.White starched shirt flapping against his back,Cap at hasty angle,Jerking his worn and well traveled pack over one shoulder blade.

Imagined his white knuckles, fierceness of his face,Decision final, at least for now.

Then –

Pounding on the staircase,Wrenching open of the ancient oak door,it, defenseless to the battering,inset beveled glass catching prisms from inner lamplightsending sparkles of light flying across ceiling of the foyer hall.

Wednesday, June 2, 2010

N is for No

No, said the voice on the telephone;No, was the weary reply from ages away.No, said the girl at the end of the bed;No, agreed the man, shaking his head.No, said the chin as it swayed to and fro,Visiting one shoulder, then the other.No, said the child who’d grown so old.No, said the father, No, said the mother.No, said the clown, this is not a joke,As they said no from one to another.No, said the motorists all in a race.No, said the rain on an upturned face.No, said the walker who followed his dog.The answer is no and remains the same;It could be Nothing by another name,Or maybe the end of ceaseless pain.No, is all that you need to know.Clear the board, pass the deck,Clean the slate, go home.

About Me

When I was thirteen my English teacher advised my mother to encourage my writing. Mom avidly read everything I wrote; she was my biggest fan. My introduction to publication was Student Life Editor for my school newspaper and yearbook. Later I was a stringer for the local newspaper and eventually a travel writer and poet. My books include NOTHING GOLD, the story of how I lost my husband and got him back again, only to realize he returned as a stranger; MOZO, a novel inspired by my years in Mexico; THE BOYS, the story of a pregnant teenage runaway who marries a Brit so he can get a Green Card and stay in the USA with his Venezuelan lover; CARLOS AT THE BROKEN ARMS, the tales of a documented Mexican immigrant who finds his legal status is sometimes less than helpful when he takes over management of his departed aunt’s apartment building.
Adam Garcia and Jake Diego are the nom de plumes that I use for writing in Mexico, Central and South America. Adam and Jake help me stay under the radar. A Googlish search will reveal a lot of interesting opinions and facts that Adam likes to share with the world.